Turning Tides
by Points
Summary: There comes a time in life when we all must face a choice- sometimes the choices we make have unforseen consequences. When Robin and the gang have to make hard choices, they may not end up being the right ones. Includes everyone. Set after mid-season 2.


A/N: Why Hello :) This is my first attempt at a Robin Hood fic, and my first attempt at any sort of fic for a long time, so please stick with me, I can promise my writing will get better :) Please let me know how to improve, and please enjoy reading!

He felt sick in a way he had never been sick before. He'd been so sick he'd almost died before. He'd had the flu, infections, food poisoning- he'd been sicker than sick. But not quite like this. Nausea, he thought it felt like, but not in his stomach. Nausea in his body, in his head- nausea not where it was supposed to be, but sweeping all over his body, getting worse and worse by the minute.

And he knew why- he wasn't actually sick. He felt guilty- but he'd never felt guilt like this. He'd done things he'd regretted- really, he regretted every death he was responsible for. He'd killed men that had deserved it and that had tried to kill him, and he'd killed men that didn't deserve it and were just men who had made a bad rash decision or who had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Outright killing didn't weigh on his concious all that much, even though he did regret it and think of it often- it was done, and he tried to avoid it. He'd taken things from good people, tricked people, betrayed people, lied to people, threatened people- he'd done bad things that he regretted.

No, today it had gone to something else, something different. He'd seen it done in the past, yelled and screamed inside himself about the injustice of it- never imagined that he himself would do it. He'd always fought against that kind of behaviour- the act itself made him ill to think of it. But today, he'd watched their mouths fill with blood while the thick tongue fell limply out of their mouth because if him. Even when he had held the knife, he'd felt sick- it disgusted him and he'd never do it again. But he had had to do it- he'd be killed if he failed. Someone would have to live with what he'd done, more than just taking a few coins or a necklace- no, someone was going to have to live without a part of themselves because of him.

Ducking off the side of the road, he threw up in the bushes. He silently cursed out his horse for making him walk all the way back to Nottingham. He wasn't fond of the forest on the best of days, but to be thrown off his horse and made to walk when he wasn't feeling up to par was not only agitating but not safe. He wasn't too steady on his feet- he hadn't landed quite right when he'd been fallen and his head had been giving an ache since then.

In fact, now that he thought of it, he wasn't sure he was heading in the right direction at all. He knew the path he had been taking- and the path he was on did not look familiar at all. Has he taken a wrong turn somewhere?

"Oh Hell," he said to himself, turning in a circle. What was he supposed to do? He didn't want to go anywhere near Robin Hood's area of the forest, but how could he avoid it if he didn't know where he was? "Oh, Hell..."

A wave of dizziness came over him, and he sat down. He didn't want to stop for long, just long enough to regain his barrings and rest for a minute or two. His legs were feeling a bit shaky, but he thought it was just from all the walking. He'd been on the road for quite a while- how long had it been since he'd been thrown? Twenty minutes? Thirty? Thinking back, he couldn't remember. Had it just happened, and his horse was just down the road? What had happened? His horse had spooked and bolted- that hadn't been the problem, but when his horse took a misstep and gone down he'd been thrown over her head, and by the time he'd gotten back on his feet, his horse had been gone. Had he been wandering around out here for hours?

He stood up. He couldn't just sit here- Robin and his gang would be sure to find him if he stayed in the same place for too long. They had the uncanny ability to turn up when someone least needed them. He took a step forward, but the motion had his stomach heaving and he found himself on his knees, vomiting into the bush again.

"Dear God," he said, clutching his stomach, suddenly overcome with cold and wishing he'd brought a cloak. What was wrong with him? He needed to go. Even with his head spinning, he stood up and took a step forward, only to fall back to the ground where he lay still and unmoving.

* * *

Robin grabbed Djac's arm as the woman went to run down the path to the fallen man. "Not yet."

Djac shook her arm out of his grasp. "Can you not see? He is ill! He is in need of attention."

"Maybe it's a trap."

"It is not a trap!"

"Why do we have to run to his rescue?" Much asked, looking down at the road below. "Since when do we help the enemy?"

"It is not a trap, and he is not the enemy. He is an ill man who needs attention." With that, Djac took off towards the man before anyone could object any further.

"Not the enemy?" Much said breathlessly. "Well, I never thought-! He most certainly-!"

Robin stood up and started to follow Djac down the path. "Much! Come on, we cannot let Djac go on her own!"

"I- but- never, can't help him, Robin! He is the enemy!" When Robin continued on his way and did not turn around, Much continued to splutter incoherently to himself for a few moments. "But- I- he! Allan-A-Dale! Sold us out! Most certainly is the enemy!"

Seeing that he was clearly not going to win this one sided argument, Much took to follow Robin down the path and to help Djac aid his ex-comrade.


End file.
